Waiting For You
by BlueSkies23
Summary: Sherlock gets a call from Mycroft in the middle of a case, only to find him sprawled out in an alley-way, left for dead. Did Sherlock get there in time, or was he too late? Three-shot
1. Chapter 1

**Hi! This is going to be a three-shot; the first chapter will be a normal chapter, and the other two will be different endings. Enjoy! **

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, otherwise series 3 would have come out a loooong time ago.**

Sherlock paced back and forth inside of 221B. John watched him like a hawk, knowing that Sherlock was doing his 'thinking pacing', as he liked to call it. If the pacing didn't work, he'd retreat into his Mind Palace until he found the answer. They were facing a particularly hard case that Mycroft had given them, but it ended up intersecting with another case Lestrade was working on; the perpetrator had both kidnapped the Queen and murdered a guard from a nearby museum. The queen's kidnapping had occurred about a day prior to Lestrade trying to meet up with them about the murder of the guard; Sherlock had figured out that they were connected, but he just had to figure out _how._

Lestrade knocked on the door, and John strolled over to let him in. A minute later, they both walked upstairs. "He still hasn't figured it out?" Lestrade questioned incredulously; certainly, it was something that he couldn't figure out alone, but usually Sherlock would have the answer by now, let alone the murderer.

John shook his head. "He's been pacing for the past hour. My guess is, if he doesn't figure it out in the next few minutes, he'll go into his Mind Palace."

Lestrade nodded in agreement. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

Just then, Sherlock's phone rang. He groaned and pulled it out of his jacket, flipping it open. "Whoever this is, it better be important." He snapped, and then there was a pause. His face began to whiten, and John stepped forward.

"Sherlock? Are you alright? Who's on the phone?" John asked slowly, carefully walking towards him as though he were a bomb.

"I…just hold on, I'm coming. Stay awake, Mycroft." Sherlock ordered, and suddenly vaulted out of the room, practically jumping down the staircase.

John and Lestrade traded glances. "Did he say Mycroft?" Lestrade whispered. "Is he in some sort of danger?"

John shook his head and grabbed his coat. "I have no idea, but whatever it is, we have to follow Sherlock."

They raced out of Baker Street, turning their heads to find Sherlock already about a block ahead of them. "Sherlock!" John cried, racing after him. Lestrade shook his head after a moment and chased after John.

Sherlock was fast, but he hadn't eaten or slept since the case had started, so he was still physically weaker than John. After a minute or so, John caught up to him and grabbed his arm. "Sherlock!" John shouted, and Sherlock attempted to wrench away from him.

"No, John, I have to get to-" Sherlock started, until he heard a low moan come from a nearby alleyway.

"Mycroft…" Sherlock echoed, stepping back for a moment, and then ran into the alleyway.

Lestrade and John both followed Sherlock, only to see him holding Mycroft in his arms. "Mycroft, come on, wake up!" he ordered, and Mycroft's eyes began to flutter. Sherlock sighed audibly in relief, and John and Lestrade stepped closer.

"You alright?" John asked, pointing his gaze at Mycroft. "What happened?"

Mycroft grunted, stifling a louder groan. "I…I was driving with Anthea, and…t-the car stopped. She…she walked out, and they took out a g-gun and shot her in the head." He lifted his arm slightly to point to the street on the opposite side of the alley. Right at the edge of the road was a body.

John raced over to her and checked her pulse. Instead of a steady heartbeat, he found sullen silence.

John strode back over to them. "She's dead," he announced, and Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Obviously. Who do you know that's taken a gun to the head and survived?" Sherlock jabbed, and immediately looked back at Mycroft. "What did they do to you?"

His voice seemed young and worried, like a child. Suddenly, Sherlock took a hand away from where he was holding Mycroft. It was dripping with blood.

"Bloody hell…" Lestrade whispered, and then pulled out his cell phone to call an ambulance.

Sherlock shook his head, aghast. "Mycroft…" he murmured. He ripped off his scarf and tied it to Mycroft's waist, where the blood was coming from. He pushed down on it, cringing when Mycroft let out another groan.

"I'm sorry…" Sherlock whispered. "I need to stop the bleeding. It's going to hurt."

Lestrade finished the call and announced, "The ambulance is going to be here in about ten minutes. Do you think you can last that long?"

Mycroft nodded. "I…I will be fine, Lestrade."

"Mycroft, what did they do to you?" Sherlock repeated, making each word clearer than the last.

"They…there were two of them. Both men. One had…had a knife…" He gestured to his wound, and continued. "They left me here for dead…which is when I called you."

Sherlock looked at him blankly, and after a few moments, his face turned to anger. They had hurt his brother…they were going to pay.

"Why did they do this?" Sherlock asked, his words vicious and cutting. "You still have your wallet, so it wasn't a robbery. Did you see something? Does this have anything to do with the case?"

Mycroft nodded. "I…I saw them. The two men…they were the murderers. I overheard their conversation…it was a conspiracy, the whole thing was a conspiracy…" he trailed off, and his eyes began to close.

"No…No, Mycroft, I need you to stay with me, okay? Mycroft!" Sherlock cried, and began to shake him.

Mycroft's eyes fluttered again, and he groaned. "S…Sherlock?" he shuddered.

"I'm here, Mycroft." Sherlock murmured, squeezing his hand. "It's okay."

"Sherlock…I-I…I want to see…Sherlock…" Mycroft's voice was getting weaker, and he trailed off again.

"Mycroft…Mycroft, it's me, Sherlock. Come on, stay awake. Stay…stay awake for me, okay?" Sherlock whispered.

Mycroft didn't move.

In fact, Mycroft stopped breathing.


	2. Chapter 2: Ending Number One

**Chapter 2**

**Warning: spoilers for Reichenbach Fall**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock **

"Mycroft?" Sherlock murmured, shaking his shoulder. "Mycroft, can you hear me?" Sherlock hurriedly pushed his finger against Mycroft's neck, desperate to find a pulse.

Instead, he found silence.

He shook his head. "No, no, no…Mycroft…" he whispered.

John and Lestrade watched from a distance, crest-fallen. "What do we do?" Lestrade asked. "Is he…"

John shook his head. "I don't know, Lestrade. I don't…I don't know."

Sherlock rapidly began CPR, pushing his palms against Mycroft's chest rapidly, again and again and again, then breathing into his mouth and checking his pulse.

He did it once. Twice. Three times. Still nothing.

"Sherlock…" John whispered, walking towards him. "Sherlock, you have to get away from him now."

"No…no, I can save him. I have to save him." Sherlock replied, his voice almost robotic, but cracking. John could see his desperation, and stepped back slightly as Sherlock resumed pulsating his fists against Mycroft's empty chest.

After a few more tries, Sherlock shook his head rapidly, kicking his foot against the wall in anger. "You idiot!" he screamed, and Lestrade and John backed up for a moment. "You had to- to go and get bloody stabbed, you stupid…stupid idiot…"

Sherlock leaned his body against the wall, breathing in and out slow and shaky breaths. Tears threatened to fall, but he blinked them back. John walked closer to him, about to console him, when they heard a groan from the corner.

Sherlock looked at him in shock, his eyes wide. "Mycroft?" he whispered. He raced over to the once-dead body and shook his shoulder. "Mycroft, can you hear me?"

His voice was desperate, pleading. How could Mycroft resist? "You…called me an idiot." Mycroft shuddered, his eyes opening slightly. "Had to…wake up…prove you wrong."

Sherlock grinned, a lop-sided grin of a child. Mycroft wiped away a few stray tears on Sherlock's face, and murmured, "You're crying."

Sherlock laughed airily. "Suppose I am," he retorted, still shaky.

John and Lestrade smiled and approached them again. "You okay there, Mycroft?" John asked. "You gave us quite a scare."

Mycroft nodded. "Yes, I don't believe I'll be sleeping again. How far away is that ambulance?"

"Just a minute or so." Lestrade said, grinning as well. "Do you think you can wait that long before dozing off again?"

Mycroft chuckled. "I believe I can manage."

A few minutes later, as Lestrade predicted, the ambulance arrived. Sherlock rode with his brother, while John and Lestrade drove to the hospital. The next few hours were spent waiting while Mycroft went through surgery, knowing that Mycroft's life was still hanging in the balance.

"He'll be fine." Lestrade spoke through the silence, resting his hand on Sherlock's shoulder.

Sherlock nodded. "I don't expect anything less."

SSSSSSSSSSSS

A few hours later, Mycroft was released from surgery.

A few hours later, Mycroft awoke, and was given a thorough scolding by Sherlock.

A few days later, Mycroft was released from the hospital, and lived in 221B Baker Street for the next week.

A week later, Mycroft was allowed to leave John and Sherlock's presence, and his final act before leaving Baker Street was hugging Sherlock for the first time in years. Sherlock hugged back.

Two years later, Mycroft visited a mourning John after Sherlock's jump from Saint Bart's. He visited Sherlock's grave and mourned himself, then returned to his own home only to find Sherlock waiting there for him. "I'm sorry," Sherlock murmured, his face full of remorse after seeing the surprised and hurt look on Mycroft's face. The unanswered questions hung in the atmosphere like a heavy fog, but Sherlock pushed through with his apologies. "I'm sorry," he repeated. Before he could say it for the third time, Mycroft pulled him into a bone-crushing hug, and realizes how Sherlock had felt two years ago when he himself had nearly died.

Three years later, Sherlock returned to 221B Baker Street with Moriarty's web defeated. Everything had gone back to normal, and before leaving, Sherlock's mouth twitched up into a smile, and he raised his hand to wave. Mycroft returned to his own home, later that evening feeling to scar on his waist, and knowing that they would always protect each other, no matter what would occur.

Fifty years later, Mycroft Holmes died of old age. Sherlock visited Mycroft's grave, eighty years old himself, and nearing his time to go. He remembered watching Mycroft visit his own grave years and years ago, and knew that somewhere, Mycroft was still protecting him.

Sixty years later, Sherlock Holmes died of old age. He had out-lived Mycroft by three years, a fact which he gloated about several times when he visited his grave. Both boys had gone, and were no longer waiting.

Everything was at peace.

**The next and last chapter will be coming out soon! **** It'll be an alternate ending, starting from where chapter one left off.**


	3. Chapter 3: Ending Number Two

**Chapter 3**

**Hi! Sorry for the long wait, I've had a lot of crazy stuff happening in my life recently. This chapter starts where chapter one left off. It's the last chapter of this series…thing.**

**Just a warning: this is really intense emotion-wise and description-wise. Sherlock is panicking, and there's a lot of blood, so if you think this might trigger you, I'd advise you to not read it.**

**Okay! I hope you enjoy it! :D**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock **

_Previously:_

"_Sherlock…I-I…I want to see…Sherlock…" Mycroft's voice was getting weaker, and he trailed off again._

"_Mycroft…Mycroft, it's me, Sherlock. Come on, stay awake. Stay…stay awake for me, okay?" Sherlock whispered. _

_Mycroft didn't move._

_In fact, Mycroft stopped breathing._

SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS S

"Mycroft?" Sherlock whispered, shaking Mycroft's shoulders. At first, he shook them lightly, as though trying to wake up someone who was merely sleeping. But after a few moments, he began to shake him harder and harder, with the force of a desperate man trying to stop the inevitable.

"Mycroft!" Sherlock shouted. No response.

Sherlock shook his head and began CPR, his palms pressing on Mycroft's chest once, twice, again and again.

_One._

_Two._

_Three._

_Four._

He had to wake up, he just _had _to! The British government couldn't run without him, Sherlock thought.

_One._

_Two._

_Three. _

_Four._

Sherlock wouldn't let him die. Sod the British government, who cared about them? Sherlock needed him. Mycroft swore to protect Sherlock as a child. Sherlock swore the same, remembering the summer day of the promise. Sherlock had fallen and twisted his ankle, and Mycroft was the one who picked him up and carried him home.

"It was stupid of you to try and walk home on a twisted ankle, Sherlock!" Mycroft scolded him. He had just finished wrapping his ankle when the conversation began.

"I figured no one else would come for a long while. I wanted to go home, so I did." Sherlock replied simply.

_One._

_Two._

_Three._

_Four._

"I would have come." Mycroft said, his voice serious.

"Maybe. Maybe after a long while. But I didn't want to stay there alone." Sherlock explained.

"You weren't alone. Not really. I'll always be with you, Sherlock. Maybe not…not physically, but no matter what happens, I'll always be in your heart." Mycroft whispered, poking the younger boy's chest lightly to get a light giggle out of him.

_One._

_Two._

_Three._

_Four._

"I'll always protect you, Sherlock. I promise."

_One._

_Two._

_Three._

_Four._

"Always?" Sherlock asked wistfully, looking into his brother's eyes for truth. Mycroft's eyes gleamed, and his reply was spoken with complete honesty.

_One._

_Two._

_Three._

_Four._

"Always."

_One._

_Two._

_Three-_

Sherlock felt an arm tugging against his shoulder. He continued anyway, ignoring the touch. Mycroft protected him, always protected him, always would protect him-

"Sherlock, stop. He's dead." John spoke cautiously, yet his voice filled with determination.

Sherlock shook his head. "No. No, he's not-"

"Sherlock." Lestrade whispered, leaning down next to him. "Sherlock, please, you have to understand. He's dead. I- I'm sorry, but you have to-"

"No!" Sherlock shouted. Lestrade and John looked back at him, shocked at his outburst. "No, he's not…he wouldn't."

So he continued pumping his hands against Mycroft's chest; begging, _pleading _for his heart to beat.

Sherlock felt arms wrap around his own, but he didn't fully notice them until they began to pull him away from Mycroft.

"No…" he whimpered. "No, no no no no no…"

Lestrade and John jerked him into a standing position, each one of them holding one of his arms. Sherlock took a moment to look at Mycroft's body, his bloody body, his own hands covered in blood-

Red. All he could see was red. Red, streaming over Mycroft, _his _Mycroft. First the older one, the one he knew now, but then the child; his older brother, who took him home that day with a twisted ankle. His older brother who taught him to see the world in a whole new way, a way where everything was so perfectly clear to him, cause to effect. His older brother who protected him, always, always…

The good memories of his brother stopped. The dreams, the beauty of it, it all went away. Suddenly it was just the body. The dead, cold, lifeless body that could never come back. The body of the boy who always protect him, yet the one time Sherlock could protect him, he failed.

"_Mycroft!" _Sherlock screamed, trying to wrench himself out of Lestrade and John's grasp. They held him firmly, and he began to scream his brother's name over and over, kicking and screaming- he had to get away from them, _he had to get to Mycroft!_

He felt them almost lose their grip, and there were lights, bright, bright lights- an ambulance? Then voices, so many voices…

As he looked over to Mycroft once more, dead, cold eyes staring back at him, Sherlock lost his hold on the world and everything went black.

SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS

Sherlock awoke the next morning in Baker Street knowing exactly what had happened. He remembered his loss of control, his panic, the blood-

No. Best not to think of the blood right now. He looked down at his hands and saw traces of left-over stains of blood on them from before. The morning he awoke, he saw the blood on his hands, and after a ferocious and unforgiving flashback, he spent the next half an hour furiously scrubbing his hands, trying to get rid of the blood, trying to get rid of the red. But no matter how hard he tried, the red on his hands, his memories of the night, refused to fade.

The collar of his dress shirt muffled in the wind. He stood in front of a gravestone that read "Mycroft Holmes". Simple and plain; no dates, no inspirational quote, nothing but his name. Mycroft would have wanted it that way. It was efficient.

Sherlock suddenly remembered John's presence. He stood beside him, also wearing a suit. The funeral had just ended, the rest of the people had cleared off, and it was just him and John in the cemetery.

John rested his hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "I'll leave you to…say your piece, I suppose." John murmured, squeezing his shoulder and then stepping away and out of the cemetery itself.

Sherlock looked precariously at the headstone, and then sighed. "Doesn't make much sense to talk to a lump of stone, now does it?" Sherlock mused. "Well, I suppose your body is right below it; your wounds were cleaned out, the ceremony was open casket-"

Sherlock seemed to choke off, his throat constricting lightly as he remembered that Mycroft was dead, he couldn't hear him, he could never hear him-

"Look," Sherlock said, cutting off the voices protesting in his head. "You…you were a good man. You didn't deserve this. Dying…dying in an alleyway, I mean. Ridiculous, honestly; I mean, how often do you hear of common stabbings in an alley-"

He choked off again. The memory was too fresh, too _sharp. _He had to say his piece and go.

"You…you protected me. You always protected me. You swore that, and you kept up your end of the bargain. So…now it's my turn."

"You told me about those men. About their…conspiracy. I'll find them. I swear, I will avenge you…no matter what it takes."

"It's my turn to protect you, brother. You've done well."

With that, Sherlock walked away from the gravestone, determined to stop those men and set things right once and for all.

For Mycroft.

For his brother.

**So, considering the ending of this piece, I've decided that I might write a sequel. It might take a while, though, because I have many other multiple-chapter stories up at the moment. I'll try and start on it a bit, and I'll probably post the first chapter as soon as I finish up one or two of those multi-chapter stories I have going on. (I think I have about six of them. I have a habit of starting something and then moving on to something else. But I'm trying to break that habit. So :P)**

**Anyway…if you liked this story, feel free to favorite it or review (reviews are great, because you're helping me improve my writing. And compliments never hurt ;) But whatever you think about my story, feel free to write in the review box. I really appreciate your opinions.)**

**Okay! Thanks for sticking with me for this story **


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